


Sardines

by onegreyelephant



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Frottage, Humor, M/M, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 17:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onegreyelephant/pseuds/onegreyelephant
Summary: Zaphod accidently destroys the Improbability Drive of the Heart of Gold, causing an episode of uncontrollable improbable glitches, one of which ends up with Arthur and Ford trapped close together in a confessional booth.





	Sardines

This is what the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy has to say about walls:  
Walls are among one of the most frequently occurring objects in the galaxy. They have multiple uses; including holding things up, holding things in and keeping things out. They are considered mostly harmless, unless provoked actively by running into one, or being under one if it falls down. Walls are very rarely seen in an active attack position, the major exception being the planet Trephonogoth 12A. Here, walls are custom designed to initiate surprise attacks upon young Trephonogothians by leaping out from otherwise sturdy looking buildings and trampling them to death as part of the Trephonogoth 12A Annual Festival of the Unexpected.

Arthur banged his head against the wall again. This was the eighth time he had done it that morning. Luckily, this was not a wall on Trephonogoth 12A, and was not about to engage him in aggressive combat. This wall in fact, quite unlike the walls on Trephonogoth 12A, had been programmed with a GPP, or Genuine People Personality by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and was therefore responding with a cheerful,

“Thank you for using me as a solid surface. I am pleased to be supporting this corridor for you!” every time Arthur hit his head against it. This, Arthur thought, was creating a pleasantly trance inducing monotony in his brain.

Thump, went his head again. 

“Thank you for using me as a solid surface. I am pleased to be supporting this corridor for you!” responded the cheerful wall.

Thump, went his head.

“Thank you for using me as a solid surface. I am pleased to be suppo-” 

Thump.

“Thank you for using me as a solid surf-”

Thump.

“Thank you for u-”

Thump.

“Th-”

Thump.

“Th-”

Thump.

Eventually though, he realised that however trance inducingly pleasant this activity might be, it was in fact, getting him nowhere. He paused. There were two main problems here he thought. One was Tea. He needed tea. Tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, tea. Real tea, fresh tea, proper British breakfast tea, with real tea bags and a flavour that would begin by stimulating his tongue and then revitalise his whole body... and a slice of toast or two with marmalade on the side wouldn't go astray either. But the tea was the main issue. Was it possible that there was really nowhere other than Britain in the entire universe, that did not have a decent cup of tea?

“Tea, tea, tea,” he began to mutter under breath like a mantra, hoping that maybe if he repeated the word enough, the longed-for beverage would magically appear in front of him. Instead, the wall suddenly broke into his repetitive incantation with a polite and helpful,

“Hello would you like to use me as a solid surface again? I am here to happily support this whole corridor for you!”

Arthur ignored it.

His second problem was occurring lower down in his body. After arriving on the Heart of Gold and re-establishing contact with Tricia McMillian (or “Trillian” he thought bitterly), it hadn't taken him too long to realise that attempting to renew the fleeting connection they had had on Earth was completely out of the question. Their relationship was going quite literally like a house on fire-  
in that she constantly seemed to run away from him screaming, as most people did from burning houses.

On the other hand, Ford. He paused to think about Ford. He liked Ford. Of course he liked Ford. He was a weird guy, but that was fine...they were friends, of a sort. And thanks to Ford he was still alive, while apparently to the rest of his planet had been demolished. Or supposedly demolished. He wasn't 100% convinced about that whole story yet. But that was beside the point, what was more currently confusing was his recent desire to spend more time with the man. And the weird inexplicable jealousy whenever Ford spent too much time with Zaphod or Trillian. Not to mention the dreams, like the one with just himself, Ford and that large bath of tea...

On Earth, Ford had stood out as slightly strange, an anachronism of the regularity of Arthur's boring, but nice, life. Now, however, Ford seemed to fit easily into the fabric of the universe, while Arthur stuck out like a giraffe in a field of pure-bred Arabian stallions. Ford was able to navigate with ease through this insane new universe of which Arthur had previously not even known existed, leaving Arthur flailing stupidly behind him. Ford's new status left Arthur feeling both horribly jealous, and horribly diminished, but at the same time horribly...attracted to it?

Suddenly, an agonised yell broke his concentration. That sounded like Zaphod, he thought, looking down the corridor in the direction of the noise. Hearing a second shouted curse he began to take a tentative step towards it, undecided as to whether he really actually wanted to investigate anything that would cause Zaphod such concern. But before he made a move, the sound of footsteps caused him to turn around to see Ford running up behind him.

“You heard it too?” Ford asked.

“Zaphod?”

Ford acknowledged with a nod. “I'm going to find out what he's done this time.”

Jealously unwilling to leave Ford alone with Zaphod, Arthur quickly decided to follow along. They found Zaphod in the control room of the Heart of Gold,where he was standing at the control deck arguing loudly with himself.

“What just happened?” Ford asked him, breaking into Zaphod's argument.

One of Zaphod's heads turned around to acknowledge them, while the other stared sulkily in the opposite direction.

“We heard you yell,” added Arthur helpfully.

“Oh that,” Zaphod answered. “I spilt my drink over the control board.”

He gestured at the bubbling fizzy mess that was dripping down between the computer keys.

“And I think it might possibly have leaked into the Improbability Drive,” he added casually.

“It certainly did!” piped up Eddie, the ship's computer. “Would you like me to tell you just how much you have ruined the Improbability Drive with that one spilt drink?”

“No,” said Zaphod.

“I can calculate it with 100 percent accuracy down 100138.2 decimal points!” gushed Eddie.

“I don't care,” said Zaphod.

“But wouldn't you like to know h-”

“NO!” Zaphod cut in. “Just let it dry out a little. I'm sure it will be fine.”

“Oh no!” Eddie enthused. “Your drink got right into the main motherboard of the drive and has completely leaked through all the circuits! You could begin experiencing infinite improbabilities at any second. Isn't that exciting?”

“No,” said Arthur, Zaphod and Ford in unison.

“Can you fix it?” Ford asked Eddie.

Eddie was silent for a minute. “Do you want me to?” he responded finally.

Zaphod gave a loud strangled sigh and kicked the computer console. “Of course we want you to fix it, you useless, idiot computer.”

“Oh, well in that case,” replied the computer brightly, “I just can't I'm afraid. I'm sorry, but due to the acidity of your drink, in addition to saturating the Improbability Drive, you've also burnt through a number of my vital circuits. Isn't that a shame?” he ended, sounding not at all sorry.

“I thought as much,” came the gloomy voice of Marvin from the doorway of the command deck, “more doom. Just what I needed to brighten my existence.”

“Well, at least Zaphod's drink hasn't affected the Improbability Drive yet,” said Ford optimistically.

And the next thing that happened was a blinding flash, and a loud roar,and Zaphod was unexpectedly swallowed by a large irate T-Rex that spontaneously appeared in front of them. 

And the next thing that happened was that Arthur and Ford were alone in a small, dimly lit cubicle.

And the next thing that happened was that Arthur tried to open the door of the cubicle and found it bolted.

From the outside.

“Aha,” he said.

“Aha?” enquired Ford beside him.

“This door seems to be bolted.”

“Oh.” Ford paused before asking, “Did you see that dinosaur?”

“I did.”

“I think it ate Zaphod.”

“Yes.” 

Arthur looked around the wooden cubicle, noticing the quite a fetching wooden latticework window at his elbow, and the padded kneeling bench below it. “I think this is a confessional booth,” he observed.

“Really?” asked Ford curiously, “I haven't been in one before.”

A sudden voice from the other side of the latticework window made them both jump.

“Good day to you, my sons,” it intoned. “Do you come to confess?”

There was a short silence as Arthur and Ford glanced at one another.

“Are you a priest?” Ford asked the voice.

There was another short pause.

“I was,” said the voice. “I now appear to be a Llama.”

“That sounds unfortunate,” observed Ford.

“Rather.”

“Look,” said Arthur, breaking into the conversation, “do you know how to get out of this booth? It seems to be locked. I'm sorry for you being a Llama and all but it`s quite cramped in here with two people.”

“I'm afraid I don't,” said the Llama Priest. “I would help if I could, but hooves don't seem to be the best for door opening skills.”

There was a short silence again.

“I could take your confession,” the Llama Priest said helpfully.

“No, but thanks anyway,” said Arthur, realising that he was close enough to see the the individual flecks of dandruff on Ford's coat.

“It is rather, isn't it,” said Ford suddenly. 

“Is rather what?”

“Cramped. I hadn't really notice until you pointed it out.”

The space inside the confessional wasn't unbearably tight, but it was not what one could call spacious. It was clearly a space made for a solitary visitor and was currently occupied by two. Arthur was feeling quite close to Ford at this particular moment in fact. He subtly tried to edge further away, but quickly found that there wasn't much more away to edge into.

“It's not a problem” said Ford. “I mean, I know you British have some pretty weird hang-ups about personal space and all, but plenty of other cultures are fine with being this close.”

“What?” asked Arthur, who hadn't been listening, being too distracted by his edging away attempts.

“Well, I feel you're quite prudish,” said Ford. 

“I have been around you know. And the Brits have a distinct lack of closeness. Not like the Italians or the Greeks or some of the other Europeans. They're always into physical contact. All the hugging and kissing, grabbing each other's hands at a moments notice and what-not. Brits are pretty cold though. Unless you're at a football match.” 

“Oh,” said Arthur uncomfortably, thinking about all the times he had thought about being closer to Ford recently. “I never thought about it,” he said.

“When was the last time you hugged someone, for instance?”

Arthur wriggled awkwardly. This conversation was not helping the situation.

“I don't know.”

“What about your mum?”

“My mum?”

“Don't you hug her?”

“No,” said Arthur.

“What about your dad?”

“Of course not!”

“See what I mean?” said Ford.

Arthur didn't. 

“I would hug my girlfriend,” he protested.

“You don't have one.”  
“Yes. I mean no. I don't. But if I did. Anyway, what's your point?”

And the next thing that happened was that the world seemed to spin sickeningly  
around them, and suddenly the Llama Priest was squeezed in beside Arthur, pushing him impossibly closer to Ford. And they were now in what appeared to be a wardrobe full of Russian army great coats.

And then there was another sickening spin and Marvin and a life-sized ornamental garden statue of a young woman with a basket of bananas on her head materialised in the wardrobe with them. They all squeezed over, quickly filling the rapidly shrinking space.

“Don't mind me,” droned Marvin.

“No-one ever minds me.

“I don't try to make anything worse.

“It just happens anyway.”

The garden statue said nothing.

“Would you like me to take your confession, my son?” ask the Llama Priest hopefully. “It sounds like you could use some help from the Lord.”

“No-one can help me,” said Marvin mournfully.

“The Lord is our saviour” replied the Llama Priest. “If you confess you will be saved.”

“Are you a Llama?” asked Marvin.

“Yes,” confessed the Llama Priest, ”but just for the time being.”

Arthur felt himself jostled from the side as Marvin angled his metal body to peer closer at the Llama. He was now so close to Ford he could feel the man's breath on his shoulder. They were wedged together neatly, Ford pressed hard against the wall, Arthur pressed hard against Ford.

“How long have we been here?” he asked Ford.

Ford shifted slightly, attempting to raise his arm high enough to get a look at his watch. As his hand snaked upwards in the confined quarters Arthur felt it press against his chest, rubbing his nipples gently through the thin flannel fabric of his pyjamas.

“I'm not sure” said Ford. “Maybe five minutes?”

“Oh.” Arthur felt his nipples stiffening as Ford's efforts to squint closer at his watch pressed him harder against Arthur's chest. It seemed to Arthur that the wardrobe was distinctly smaller than the confessional booth. Especially with the additional garden statue, army greatcoats, and robot. Not to mention the Llama, and he was now pressed face to face against Ford. The friction between their bodies creating an unpleasantly awkward heat. He felt his crotch rubbing warmly against Ford's thigh. He tried to wriggle away from the position uncomfortably, but this only made the situation worse, as his movement just pushed him more intimately against the other man's leg. 

“Tell me your sins my son,” said the Llama Priest to Marvin, apparently undisturbed by the cramped quarters.

“This is getting quite cosy,” said Ford.

Arthur gave a muffled “mm hmm,” in distracted agreement, as he tried to ignore the growing sense of arousal between his legs. 

“Tell me your sins, my son,” said the Llama Priest to Marvin, apparently undisturbed by the cramped quarters. “Have you engaged in any sinful thoughts recently?" 

“No,” sighed Marvin. “I'm too depressed to bother with sin.”

Arthur felt his face flushing in embarrasment as he listened to the Llama Priest. Right now, he was having some seriously sinful thoughts indeed, and they all involved Ford Prefect. He wondered what Ford was thinking. 

“I take it that the door is still locked?” Arthur asked, attempting to block out some of the more sinful images running through his mind. “Now that we have moved out of the confessional and all I mean.”

“Good point,” said Ford. “Let me check.”

Shifting slightly, he twisted his arm awkwardly out from beneath Arthur's chest, his movement rubbing again against the hardened nipples under Arthur's pyjamas. Squeezing his arm behind Arthur, he tried wriggling the closet handle. “Nope,” he said. “Still locked.”

“Thought as much,” observed Marvin gloomily.

And then what happened was that the wardrobe walls began to spin before suddenly melting away into undefinable dimensions. Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the yawning empty view of the universe between his feet, Arthur waited a few seconds unit he felt that the spinning had receded, and re-opened his eyes.

“Hello again,” said Ford, now staring straight into his face, his lips mere inches from Arthur's cheek and his warm breath tickling against earlobe.

“Where are we?” asked Arthur.

“Does it matter?” asked Marvin, causing Arthur to yelp briefly with pain as his metal head hit Arthur's funny bone with a loud clang. 

“Judging from the canned goods currently heaped on my lap, I'd suggest a pantry,” observed a new voice.

“Zaphod!” said Ford in amazement.

“You better believe it,” said Zaphod from somewhere behind Arthur. “All present and accounted for, and with a tin of baked beans jammed into my armpit and at least two boxes of porridge oats squeezing my buttocks.”

Arthur now felt his penis pressing hard into Fords inner thigh. Could the other man feel it? He awkwardly tried to look away from Ford's intense gaze but it seemed that Ford was deliberately trying to stare him down. 

“Wasn't there some kind of large dinosaur?” Ford asked Zaphod absently. 

“Oh yeah. That was a bad one,” replied Zaphod. “Completely took me by surprise, could feel the stomach acids swirling around, burning through my shirt, and suddenly BAM I was here with you guys, playing sardines in a pantry.”

Arthur felt Ford's body shifting against him again. Ford's shoulder was now pushing hard up against his chest and the friction on his hardened nipples was causing ripples of pleasure throughout his body, while at the same time he could feel Ford's warm breath like a gentle breeze on his sweaty neck. Rigidly, he managed to break away from the man's intense gaze, but now all he could see was a large box of Weet-a-Bix. 

“Try Me Hot!” it said in large red letters across the box. 

I am, thought Arthur. 

“Fuel Your Day!” it said in more exciting gold print.

He does, thought Arthur.

“Try the Weet-a-Bix Week Challenge!” it suggested in a smaller, but equally exciting green font.

I'd love to, thought Arthur. This wasn't helping. At all. He felt Ford shifting again, rubbing his shoulder more firmly against Arthur's hard nipple. The friction was unbearable.

“Are you doing that on purpose?” asked Arthur quietly.

“Doing what?” said Ford.

“Oh, well...” Arthur gave a sharp intake of breath as Ford wriggled sensuously against his chest.

“Are you sure...” Arthur began again and then stopped awkwardly.

“Hmm?” asked Ford.

“No, it's nothing” said Arthur, embarrassed.

“God I have an awful itch on my knee.”

Ford suddenly began twisting his arm downwards to reach his legs. As he did so he pushed his thigh brutally into Arthur's groin causing an explosion of blinding sensation in Arthur's lower regions. Arthur could feel the searing heat like someone was ironing his pyjama pants while he was still wearing them. As Ford scratched at his itching knee, his thigh rubbed forcefully against Arthur's cock. Surely Ford knew what he was doing, he thought. He must be doing it on purpose. Arthur attempted to pull away, but he still couldn't move in the confined space. 

“I say,” observed Ford's muffled voice from just below his chest. “There's real Walker's Shortbread down here. I've been craving some of that since we left Earth. Let me just get it out.”

This involved him attempting to manouevre his whole body down to the lower shelf of the pantry. His lowered head was now rubbing against Arthur's nipples, his breath creating a draught in the gaps between Arthur's pyjama buttons, and the arm that had previously been scratching at Ford's knee was now angled to gently nudge against Arthur's cock in a circular motion, as he attempted to pull the shortbread from the lower shelf. Arthur stiffened his whole body as Ford's elbow massaged at his balls. Trying desperately to contain himself, he felt his cock swelling with each rub of Ford's arm as the man wrestled with the biscuit tin. 

“Nearly there,” he heard Ford mutter into Arthur's dressing gown. “Just a little more...” 

Ford increased the intensity of his tugging, and Arthur groaned silently in ecstasy as his now engorged penis rubbed rhythmically against Ford's elbow.

“Yes, Yes!” Ford gasped finally as he pulled the biscuit tin from the shelf in one final brutal jerk, rubbing his heated elbow the entire length of Arthur's bursting cock. Arthur gasped in ecstasy, as Ford wriggled upwards again slowly, pushing his way the whole length of Arthur's body in the confined space of the pantry, and as Arthur found himself exploding with a shuddering moan of pleasure, they both came together successfully, Arthur in his pants, Ford with his biscuit tin. Exhausted, Arthur dropped his head against Fords' shoulder, attempting to stifle his panting breath. 

And the next thing that happened was that two planets away, 150 forks at a wedding party were spontaneously transformed into large angry cobras in the hands of the wedding guests, causing quite a stir of confusion but considerably brightening the day of the bride who had been considering ditching the wedding anyway, and now found she didn't have to as her newly wedded husband had just suffered a fatal snake bite.

At the same time, a tent full of boy scouts suddenly materialised far out in hyperspace. They floated there for a few seconds, long enough to realise that perhaps boy scouts are not always prepared, before they plummeted into a black hole.

And Arthur, Ford and the tin of Walker's Shortbread reappeared in the familiar corridors of the Heart of Gold in a tangled spooning heap.

“We're back!” they heard Zaphod shout from somewhere else on the ship.

Jumping up, Ford brushed himself down and looked at Arthur, still lingering in his spooned position.

“What are you doing?” Ford asked. 

“Oh, nothing,” said Arthur, quickly wrapping his dressing gown around his stained pyjama pants. “Just...” he trailed off, embarrassed.

“Come on,” said Ford. “We have things to do.”

“We do?” said Arthur, wondering if he had simply imagined everything that had just happened.

Ford began to walk out of the room. “I'm going to find Zaphod immediately, and ban all drinks on the command deck. I don't think we really need that experience again.”

Arthur said nothing.

“Are you coming?”

Arthur sighed and got up , following the rapidly disappearing Ford down the corridor.

“Can I have a biscuit?” he asked wistfully, wondering if he could find something like real tea to dip it into.


End file.
